Eight boys, eight hearts, eight very different ways to confess…
So here’s a tiny collection of how I imagine each ATEEZ member would finally tell you they’re in love.
Get comfy, it’s about to get soft.
Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho
💕⚡ — W O O Y O U N G — ⚡💕
Vibe: teasing → suddenly serious, flirty turned heartfelt
Trope: jokes become confessions
Warnings: playful chaos, heart-stopping sincerity, surprise softness
A/N: Wooyoung flirts with everyone, but means it with only one person. And when he drops the act? It’s intense. It’s honest. It’s impossible to mistake. This one hits right in the stomach 🤧💕
You should have known he was up to something the moment he didn’t take the good side of the couch.
Wooyoung is a menace, but a consistent one. That’s how you’ve survived being friends with him this long. You’ve learned his patterns.
Pattern #1: If there are snacks, he will steal at least 70% of them and pretend it’s your fault.
Pattern #2: If there is music, he will either be dancing or threatening to dance.
Pattern #3: If there is a couch, he will always take the corner with the best view of the TV and stretch out like a king, forcing everyone else to adapt.
Tonight, though, he walks into your living room, throws himself down on the less ideal side of the couch, and leaves the good corner free.
You narrow your eyes.
“Who are you,” you say, “and what have you done with Jung Wooyoung?”
He glances over, already halfway through opening the bag of chips he brought.
“Wow,” he says. “No ‘hello,’ no ‘wow, thank you for coming over with snacks like the generous king you are,’ just immediate suspicion.”
“I can multitask,” you say. “Hello, I’m suspicious.”
His mouth twitches.
“I just felt like sitting here,” he says, as if that settles it. “Nothing weird.”
You keep staring.
He keeps not meeting your eyes.
Interesting.
You put your hands on your hips. “You’re acting strange.”
He scoffs. “I’m always strange.”
“Okay, more strange,” you correct. “Did you break something? Is there bad news? Did you get a new haircut and you’re afraid I’ll roast you?”
He rolls his eyes and finally looks at you properly.
“No bad news,” he says. “No broken things. Hair still perfect, as you can see.” He flicks imaginary strands dramatically.
You squint.
“Are you dying?” you ask.
He snorts. “No? What?”
“Blink twice if the real Wooyoung is trapped in a basement somewhere,” you say. “Because the Wooyoung I know would have already eaten half that bag of chips and also stolen my blanket.”
“Your blanket is ugly,” he says.
“My blanket is cozy.”
“It looks like it was made out of retired grandpa cardigans.”
“And yet,” you say, pointed, “you always steal it.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, then shoves a chip in instead of replying. Classic avoidance.
You cross the room and flop down on the couch beside him, deliberately taking the corner. You tuck your feet up and claim your blanket, draping it over your lap.
He watches you, eyes flicking once to your legs disappearing under the fabric, and then away.
Okay, definitely weird.
You pull the blanket up aggressively, as if wrapping yourself in armor.
“Talk,” you say. “What’s going on in that head.”
He sighs dramatically, flopping back against the cushions.
“Can I at least pick the movie first?” he asks.
“We’ve seen every movie on your list,” you say. “Twice.”
“Third time’s the charm,” he says.
You snort. “Second time was the charm. Third time is concerning.”
“Fourth is tradition,” he counters.
You open your mouth to argue, but then you see the nervous flicker at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands are fidgeting with the ripped corner of the chip bag.
You exhale.
“Okay,” you say more quietly. “What’s wrong?”
His gaze snaps to you again, and this time he doesn’t look away.
For just a second, the chaos peels back, and you see it—something raw and unguarded in his eyes. It makes your chest go tight.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, softer now. “I just… wanted to see you.”
Your heart skips.
He says that kind of thing all the time. It’s not new. But tonight, with his shoulders a little tense and his usual bravado turned down a notch, it feels different.
“You saw me yesterday,” you point out gently.
He shrugs, eyes flicking back to the TV. “Yeah, well. I wanted to see you today too.”
You feel your face warm.
You hate how easily he does this to you. How one sentence, one look, can send your carefully arranged feelings tumbling like a stack of unsteady books.
You’ve liked him for a while now. Not in the vague, “oh he’s cute” kind of way. In the can’t-stop-thinking-about-him, stomach-flipping, half-panicked, half-thrilled kind of way.
Not that you’d ever admit that. Not when he’s like… this.
Jung Wooyoung, professional tease, serial flirt, walking chaos. He flirts with everyone. He likes making people flustered. That’s just how he is.
You tell yourself that when he throws an arm around your shoulders, he does that with everyone. When he drops into your lap, it’s because he’s a menace, not because he wants to be close to you, specifically. When he calls you “my favorite,” he says that about at least five other things a day.
It doesn’t matter that sometimes his eyes linger a little longer on you than they do on anyone else. That sometimes his jokes land with an odd weight, as if he’s hiding something in them. That sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, he looks… soft.
You’re his friend. You’re not going to mess that up by reading into every smile.
…Even if you kind of do.
“Did something happen?” you ask. “With work? With the guys?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just… a normal day.” He hesitates. “The kind that makes you think too much.”
That—that you understand.
You sink further into the couch, pulling the blanket up to your chin, suddenly feeling oddly exposed under his gaze.
“Okay,” you say. “Normal day thoughts. Do you want distraction or do you want to talk about them?”
He gives you a crooked half-smile.
“Since when did you become so emotionally intelligent?” he asks. “Usually your suggestion for my problems is ‘have you tried sleeping?’”
“It’s a good suggestion,” you say. “Very underrated.”
“You threatened to knock me out with a frying pan once so I’d go to bed,” he reminds you.
“I stand by that,” you say.
He laughs quietly, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases.
“I… don’t know what I want,” he admits. “Distraction sounds nice. Talking also sounds nice. There’s just—”
He breaks off, teeth catching his lower lip.
“There’s what?” you prompt.
He stares at you for a beat, something like frustration flashing across his features.
“You’re going to laugh at me,” he says.
“I laugh at you constantly,” you point out.
“That’s the problem,” he groans. “You’re too comfortable.”
“Wow,” you say. “Excuse me for enjoying your presence.”
He drags a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more.
“See?” he says. “You say things like that, and then you look at me with that face, and my brain just—”
He makes a small exploding gesture near his temple.
“—short-circuits.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
“Wooyoung,” you say slowly. “You’re really not making any sense.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m trying to work up to it.”
“To what?” you ask.
He looks at you, really looks, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. You suddenly feel too warm under his gaze, hyper-aware of the way you’re sitting, the way your hands are clutched in your lap, the way your heart is hammering.
“Okay,” he says, half to himself. “Distraction first. Talk later.”
Before you can argue, he snatches up the remote and starts scrolling through your streaming app like his life depends on finding the perfect movie.
You watch him, the speed of his scrolling, the way his knee bounces erratically. He is Very Clearly Not Okay.
“Wooyoung,” you say. “You’re scrolling past everything twice.”
“Nothing’s speaking to me,” he says tightly.
“Maybe because you’re not reading,” you point out.
He grunts.
You reach over and take the remote from his hand.
“Hey!”
“Wooyoung.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
He hesitates, then slowly turns his head. His eyes meet yours, dark and suddenly very serious.
“Talk first,” you say gently. “Then distraction. Your brain is doing that thing where it yells a lot in the background. I can practically hear it.”
He stares at you, lips pressed together like he’s pushing words back.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.
It’s a short, breathy laugh, disbelieving.
“What?” you ask.
“You,” he says softly. “You always do this.”
You blink. “Do what?”
“You look at me,” he says, “and suddenly I can’t hide anything.”
Something in your chest twinges.
“Is that… bad?” you ask.
He shakes his head quickly. “No. That’s…” He exhales. “That’s actually my favorite thing.”
You have to fight very hard not to melt into the couch.
“Okay,” you say, trying to sound normal when your insides are anything but. “Then let’s use it. What’s going on in there?”
You tap his forehead lightly.
He makes a face. “Rude.”
“Honest,” you correct.
He looks away, then back, then away again. Finally, he shuts his eyes for a brief second, like he’s bracing himself, then opens them and meets your gaze head-on.
“Promise you won’t make a joke before I finish?” he asks.
“Wow, calling me out,” you say, but you nod. “Okay. I promise.”
He nods, takes a breath, and then—
“Sometimes,” he says slowly, “I don’t know how to be serious with you without pretending I’m not.”
You blink. “What?”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “See? This is why I wanted distraction first.”
“Too late,” you say gently. “Explain.”
He leans his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Everyone thinks I’m…” He gestures vaguely. “You know. Loud. Playful. Flirty. Annoying.”
“You left out ‘nimble,’” you say automatically.
He shoots you a look, and you mime zipping your lips.
“And they’re not wrong,” he continues. “I am all those things. I like being that way. It’s fun making people laugh. It’s fun teasing them, getting reactions. It’s… easy.”
You listen quietly, your heart tuning into a more careful rhythm. This isn’t a side of him most people get to see.
“But sometimes,” he says, “it feels like that’s all people want from me. Like I’m… performing all the time. Even when I don’t mean to.” He shifts, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “And then there’s you.”
You swallow. “Me?”
He nods.
“With you,” he says, “I start out joking. I can’t help it. It’s like my default setting. But then we’re in your kitchen, and you’re burning something again—”
“Hey.”
“—and you’re yelling at the pan like it personally offended you, and I’m laughing, and then all of a sudden, I look at you and it’s like… everything in me shuts up for a second.” His voice drops. “And I feel… calm. In a way I don’t, with other people.”
You stare at him.
“I still want to joke,” he says. “But it’s not because I want to hide. It’s because I want to see you laugh. Because your laugh is… stupid.” He grimaces. “Stupid in a way that makes me feel like my chest is going to fall apart.”
Your lips twitch. “My laugh is stupid?”
“Adorable,” he amends quickly. “Infuriatingly cute. Very distracting. I hate it.”
You smile, helpless.
“And then,” he continues, steamrolling over whatever expression is on your face now, “there are these moments. Tiny ones. You hand me a mug. You look at me when I say something dumb. You send me a meme in the middle of the day. You tell me about your week and try to act like you’re fine when you’re not.”
He swallows.
“And my brain goes,”—he taps his temple—“‘You’re in trouble.’”
Your throat feels tight.
“And I tell it, ‘Relax, we’re fine. They’re my friend. My best friend. My favorite person to annoy. That’s all.’” He laughs weakly. “But then we’re watching TV and you fall asleep on my shoulder and I don’t move for two hours because I’m afraid of waking you up, even though my arm is dead. And my brain goes, ‘No, really. You’re in trouble.’”
You remember that night. You remember waking up with a sore neck and an empty bowl of popcorn on the table, his hoodie draped over you like a blanket, even though you don’t remember when he took it off.
You hadn’t let yourself think about it too much.
You’re thinking about it now.
“And then,” he says softly, “I start wondering what it would be like to… hold your hand. Just because. Not because we’re crossing a street or I’m dragging you somewhere. To kiss you goodnight at your door and not make a joke about it. To show up at your work and say, ‘I’m here to pick up my....girlfriend’ instead of ‘my friend.’”
Your pulse spikes.
“And once that thought is in there,” he says, his voice trembling just slightly, “it doesn’t go away. It just… hangs around. Every time you look at me. Every time you call me. Every time you say my name like it… matters.”
Your eyes sting.
“Wooyoung…” you whisper.
“I tried to be cool about it,” he says. “Obviously. I’m very cool.”
“You’re incredibly cool,” you say, because he needs to hear it and because it makes his mouth twitch.
“I figured I’d just… flirt like I always do,” he says. “Except… it stopped being just flirting.”
He finally looks at you again, really looks.
“When I call you pretty,” he says quietly, “I mean it. When I say you’re my favorite, I mean it. When I tease you, it’s because I want your attention. When I steal your blanket, it’s because it smells like you. When I annoy you on purpose, it’s because I like seeing all your expressions. When I say ‘come over’ or ‘I’m coming over,’ it’s because… I feel better when you’re there.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you’re surprised he can’t hear it.
“And somewhere in all of that,” he continues, “I stopped being able to tell where the joke ended and the truth started.” His smile goes crooked. “So I did what I always do. I made everything a joke.”
Your chest aches.
“Today,” he says, “I woke up and thought, ‘What if I never tell you?’ And for about ten minutes, I was like, ‘Great, perfect, ideal plan, no risk, 10/10.’”
You huff out a weak laugh.
“But then I thought about you,” he says. “About you maybe falling for someone else. Someone who doesn’t know that you put your socks on before your pants because you said it ‘feels more efficient.’ Someone who doesn’t know that you hate when your foods touch. Someone who doesn’t know that you get quiet when you’re really upset, not loud. Someone who doesn’t know how you look when you’re trying not to cry and trying not to laugh at the same time.” His voice softens. “Someone who doesn’t know the things about you that I do.”
Your eyes blur.
“And the idea of that person being the one who gets to hold your hand,” he says, “or ...kiss you, or hear you say ‘I love you’ to them, when I’ve been here this whole time…” He trails off, then shakes his head, laughing humorlessly. “It made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.”
You realize now why he’s been off all night. Why his usual fire has been flickering instead of blazing.
“So I thought,” he says, staring at his hands, “maybe I should just tell you. Properly. Not in a joke. Not in a comment I can pretend I didn’t mean. Just… say it.” He glances at you, then looks away again quickly. “But that’s… terrifying.”
You wet your lips.
“What’s ‘it’?” you ask quietly, even though you already know. Even though your heart is pushing against your ribs like it’s trying to get closer to him on its own.
He laughs under his breath. It’s not a happy sound.
“You’re really going to make me say it, huh?” he says.
“You started this,” you remind him softly. “I just turned off the movie.”
He drags his hand down his face again, then lets it fall into his lap.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
He takes a breath. Lets it out.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“I like you,” he says. “In the ‘I want to date you’ way. In the ‘I want to be the one you call first’ way. In the ‘I want to kiss you and then make fun of your music taste’ way. In the ‘I think about you way too much’ way.”
He swallows.
“And… I think,” he adds, “that maybe ‘like’ stopped being a big enough word a while ago.”
Your lungs forget how to function.
He looks at you then, properly, his usual sharp stare melted into something earnest and scared and wide open.
“I love you,” he says.
The room seems to tilt.
“This isn’t a joke,” he says quickly, in case you had any doubt. “I’m not… playing around. I’m not saying it to get a reaction. I’m saying it because my chest has been screaming it at me for months, and if I don’t let it out, I might actually start vibrating.”
Despite everything, a quiet laugh escapes you.
“Wooyoung,” you whisper.
“I love you,” he repeats, more quietly this time, as if the words got easier on the second try. “I love you. And if you want to laugh, you can. If you want to tell me to stop, I will. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll go back to being your annoying friend who steals your snacks and crashes on your couch and tries very, very hard not to make it weird.”
His jaw clenches.
“But I couldn’t keep…” He gestures vaguely at his chest. “I couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t real. Not with you. Not when… you mean this much to me.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him.
The boy who never shuts up is sitting completely still, waiting for you to decide whether you just changed his entire world or burned it down.
Your eyes sting. You blink, once, twice, trying to clear your vision.
“This is so unfair,” you say.
His face crumples, just a fraction.
“Unfair?” he repeats, voice suddenly hoarse. “Because you don’t—?”
“Because you stole my line,” you say, your voice wobbling.
He blinks. “What?”
You take a shaky breath, your heart pounding.
“You think you’re the only one whose brain is screaming?” you ask, half laugh, half sob. “You think you’re the only one who had an ‘oh no, I’m in trouble’ moment? Have you met yourself? Have you seen what you’re like?”
He looks bewildered. “I— what does that—”
“You show up,” you continue, because if you stop now you won’t start again, “and everything gets louder and quieter at the same time. Louder here—” You press a hand to your chest. “—quieter here.” You tap your temple. “You annoy me on purpose and then look at me like I’m the only one in the room. You steal my blanket and then tuck it back around me when I fall asleep. You flirt with everyone, but then you… say things to me that you don’t say to them, and I spend three business days trying to figure out if you meant them.”
His eyes widen slowly.
“And then you look at me,” you say, “when you think I’m not looking. Like you’re doing now, by the way, you’re very bad at hiding.”
He doesn’t even try to deny it.
“And I’ve been sitting here,” you say, “telling myself not to read into it. Not to ruin things. Not to be stupid. Because you’re my friend. You’re… Wooyoung. Chaotic, flirty, obnoxious, wonderful Wooyoung. And I thought… there’s no way. There’s no way he actually… feels the same.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh.
“But then you say things like ‘you’re my favorite person,’” you add, “and ‘I wanted to see you today too,’ and my heart is like, ‘sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, it’s too late, we’ve already jumped.’”
His lips part.
“You…” he starts slowly, “you… jumped?”
“I free-fell,” you admit, cheeks wet now. “And then I landed on my couch and pretended I didn’t.”
He stares at you, something dawning in his expression.
“So when I said I love you—” he begins carefully.
“I wanted to scream,” you say. “In a good way. Mostly.”
His breath catches.
“Do you…” He swallows. “Do you… love me too?”
You could tease him. Drag it out. Make a joke.
You don’t.
“Yes,” you say simply. “I do.”
No metaphors. No hiding. The truth, plain and solid.
His reaction is immediate and unfiltered.
He inhales sharply, shoulders jerking, eyes going huge. A sound escapes him — half laugh, half sob — before he claps a hand over his mouth like he’s afraid something too big will come out.
You see it anyway. Everything he’s feeling, clear on his face: relief, disbelief, joy so intense it looks like it almost hurts.
You gently tug his hand away from his mouth.
“Don’t hide,” you say softly. “Not from me.”
He exhales shakily.
“You love me,” he says, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.
You nod.
“I love you,” you say. “In the ‘please stop flirting with other people so casually before I die’ way. In the ‘I replay our conversations in my head at night’ way. In the ‘I want to sucker-punch anyone who makes you feel like you’re only good for being entertaining’ way.”
His eyes flood, lashes damp.
“In the ‘I want to be the one you come home to after your normal and weird days’ way,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I love you.”
For a second, he doesn’t move.
Then he laughs — a raw, choked sound — and throws himself at you.
You oof as he grabs you, arms winding around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that’s all Wooyoung: too tight, too warm, too much, and exactly what you want.
You wrap your arms around him, laughing breathlessly against his shoulder.
“Careful,” you say. “I need that ribcage.”
“Do you?” he says, voice muffled in your hair. “Because my heart is outside my body right now.”
You squeeze him. “Mine too.”
He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands still framing your shoulders. His eyes are shining, his cheeks flushed, his mouth curved in the softest version of his usual grin.
“I want to kiss you,” he blurts, then freezes. “I mean— can I? Can I kiss you? You can say no, it’s fine—”
You cut him off by leaning in and pressing your mouth to his.
He makes a startled noise, then recovers instantly, a smile breaking across his face mid-kiss. His hands slide from your shoulders to your cheeks, thumbs brushing your skin as he kisses you back properly, deeply, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
It’s… a lot.
It’s Wooyoung, so of course it is. He kisses like he does everything: with his whole heart. Playful at first, then suddenly earnest, then teasing again. He tilts his head, chasing your lips when you pull back slightly, laughing softly into your mouth when your hand finds the back of his neck and tugs him closer.
When you finally part, you’re both breathing harder, foreheads resting together.
“Wow,” he whispers. “You’re good at that.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, dazed.
He grins, that familiar wicked glint back in his eyes but this time it’s softened, framed by something deeper.
“So,” he says, voice still a little breathless. “We’re… dating now, right? Because if you tell me that kiss was, like, a community service moment, I’m going to pass out.”
You snort. “Yes, Wooyoung. We’re dating now.”
His grin somehow gets even bigger.
“I have a partner,” he says, like he’s trying the words on. “I have you.”
“You do,” you say.
He pulls you into another hug, burying his face in your neck.
“Okay,” he says. “First official boyfriend request.”
“You don’t waste time, do you?” you murmur against his hair.
“Never,” he says. “Stop doubting when I compliment you. I mean every stupid thing I say about you.”
Your chest tightens.
“Okay,” you say softly. “First official girlfriend promise: I’ll try.”
He pulls back, eyes searching yours.
“And second request,” he says.
“Already?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Next time I flirt with you…”
“Next time?” you interrupt. “You mean constantly.”
“…I want you to know,” he continues, undeterred, “that it’s real. Not just a joke. Not just me being chaos. It’s me saying ‘I love you’ in a way that makes you roll your eyes less.”
You bite your lip, smile tugging at it anyway.
“And my request,” you say, “is that you tell me when you need to be serious. Like tonight. So I can turn the jokes off and actually… see you.”
He feels that. You can tell by the way his expression softens.
“Deal,” he says quietly. “But you already see me.”
You smile.
“I do,” you say. “Took you long enough to realize it.”
He laughs, then suddenly gasps.
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“We kissed before deciding on a movie,” he says. “This is chaos. This is anarchy. This is—”
You lean in and kiss him again, effectively shutting him up.
When you pull away, he sighs happily.
“Never mind,” he says. “Anarchy is fine.”
You chuckle, tugging the blanket again so it covers both of you now. He immediately takes advantage, scooting closer until he’s practically on top of you, his head on your shoulder, his fingers toying with your hand under the fabric.
“What are we going to watch, then?” you ask.
“You,” he says.
You elbow him lightly. “Pick a movie, loverboy.”
He grins up at you.
“Yes, partner,” he says, obviously savoring the word.
As he scrolls for something to put on, occasionally stopping to kiss your shoulder or your cheek or your knuckles, you lean back into the cushions, feeling warmth spread through your chest.
The couch is the same. The room is the same. The blanket is the same borderline-ugly-grandpa pattern. Wooyoung is still Wooyoung—dramatic, loud, annoying, endearing.
But his hand is in yours, his confession is echoing in your mind, and his eyes, when they flick to you between menu screens, are full of something new and undeniable.
He catches you staring and smirks.
“What?” he says. “Already obsessed with me?”
“Unfortunately,” you say.
He kisses the back of your hand.
“Good,” he says simply.
And just like that, with snacks on the table and a terrible movie starting up in the background, you realize: nothing has changed and everything has.
You still have Wooyoung on your couch, stealing your blanket and your snacks.
Only now, you have his heart, too.
And he finally knows he has yours.
thank you for reading, see you in the next confession
Find the other members here:
Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho
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